by Tenaya MKD
This can’t be happening!
Everything hurt. My foot, of course; but my chest, head, and stomach all hurt too. They were all twisted into tight knots. I wanted to stop crying. I felt like an idiot sobbing this way. But I couldn’t stop. At least, not for a good while.
Eventually, I ran out of tears. My panic subsided. I thought about knocking on a random apartment door to ask for help. But the more I considered it, the less I wanted to.
What would I say? How could I trust a stranger to help me with this? I don’t want anyone seeing me this way.
“Ashley, is that you?”
A young woman was about fifteen feet away, looking at me from under a blue umbrella.
“I guess it is,” I mumbled.
She rushed over to me. “What the hell are you doing out here? You must be freezing!”
I should have been: it was cold, and I was drenched. But if I had frozen, I hadn’t noticed.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” She helped me up, carefully keeping the umbrella above us. When she noticed my limp, she gasped. “What happened to your foot?”
“Glass.”
“Jesus, Ashley!” She shook her head with wide eyes, as if this situation was just so unlike me. But I think sitting in the rain, covered in mud, with bloody feet, is an unnatural state for most people. Especially sane people.
She helped me limp my way back inside. Thankfully, she knew which apartment was mine.
We hobbled to my couch, where she had me sit. Whoever this person was, she was a good friend. She brought me dry clothes and bandaged my foot without me even asking.
“Is there anything else I can do, Ashley?”
I shook my head.
“Okay… Well, you know where I live if you need me.”
I didn’t. But I nodded anyway.
“Get changed. And take care of yourself, okay? I’ll check on you later.”
I nodded. She left the apartment slowly, clearly unsure that she should.
Alone again.
I wanted to lie down on the couch and go to sleep. Panic attacks have a way of zapping your energy, and after my episode, I was running on empty. But now that I was calmer, I could feel how cold I was. I used the pale-pink towel she’d brought me to dry off and then dressed in the fresh pajamas. Another pair of terribly pink pajamas.
Coffee. I need coffee.
Limping to the kitchen made me grateful the apartment was so small. My hands shook as I opened each of the sticky cupboards, looking for the coffee and mugs. I knocked over a jar of oregano and nearly broke the pepper grinder completely. But eventually, I found what I needed.
A full pot of Starbucks Medium Roast later, I felt a bit more human. A shot or three of whiskey in my mug would have helped too, but there wasn't any around.
If I’m dying, it’s at least happening really slowly.
I approached the desk, hoping to find mail addressed to me. Or, if I was lucky, a handy little note telling me what the fuck was happening. There was nothing on top but a password-protected laptop, a pink cup of various pens, and a fragrant, lavender-scented candle. But at least there was a helpfully marked calendar hanging from the wall that told me the date was October twelfth.
My next hope was for an ID that could give me some more answers. A small purse was hanging from a hook by the front door. I dumped the crap inside onto the floor and found a phone first. It lit up with the push of a button on its side, but it asked me to draw a pattern across a grid of dots to unlock it.
Why does everything have to be locked?
Also in the purse were shimmery lip-balm, a keyring with four indistinct keys, and finally a wallet. Shockingly, it was the color gold! And since I thought it might hold the answer to the question of “Who am I?” it felt like I’d hit the motherlode.
I pulled out the ID from the card pocket with clumsy fingers.
Ashley Lyn Gains. I'm 20. I live in Seattle, Washington. I’m an organ donor.
Relief lightened my shoulders for a moment. But it quickly washed away when I realized how little all of that actually meant.
What does any of that matter if I know nothing else? Who are my parents? What am I in school for? Do I have a job? Do I like anything besides the color pink? Why can't I remember a damn thing?
A cloud of anxiety blurred the rest of the day. Panic had subsided, but the tightness in my chest never let up. I tore apart the apartment, looking for anything that might jog my memory. I only stopped to eat slices of dry, sourdough toast, the only food my queasy stomach could handle. And, of course, to make myself more coffee.
When midnight rolled around, exhaustion was pulling my eyelids closed. I navigated my way through the rubble that had once been my bedroom, got into bed, and resolved to repaint my furniture first thing in the morning. I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.
3
My eyes popped open. Almost forcibly, as if there was too much energy bubbling under them to stay closed.
I locked onto the baby-pink wall in front of me, sorely disappointed to see it.
Wait…Hadn’t my walls been white?
Then I noticed the toys. Barbies, stuffed animals, and a tiny, pink table where a fuchsia plastic tea set was arranged for two. The four-poster bed was gone, there was no nightstand to bang my hand on, and the dresser I’d planned to paint was gone too. I was in a completely different room than the one I’d gone to sleep in.
Panic set in again.
What the hell kind of drugs did I take?!
I looked down at my hands—a child's hands!
Shit, this is bad. So bad.
My guts took a violent drop into my toes. It was like the jolt you get when you're on the verge of sleep and then you inexplicably fall. I had just plummeted off a ten-story building.
The longest-haired Jonas Brother looked at me mockingly from his poster on the wall while I sat there with my head spinning.
Maybe I’m dreaming! Maybe I haven't actually woken up yet!
But everything was far too vivid, too detailed.
Do I remember taking any drugs?
But no matter how hard I strained myself, I couldn’t remember anything that happened before yesterday.
“Evie, breakfast is ready!” A woman called from the other room.
Am I Evie?
Frozen to the bed, I stared into space, listening to my heart pound.
There is no way that this body is mine. Everything about this is wrong.
So how am I here? How am I in someone else’s body?
My stomach twisted and goosebumps covered my too-small arms. My mind was shutting down, folding in on itself. The situation was so overwhelming that I was going numb to it.
“Evie! Your pancakes are getting cold!”
I pushed myself up off the bed with shaky arms, mindlessly walking toward the sound of the voice.
It was bizarre to be existing in such a little body. I was too short to see the framed photos that lined the hallway. My hands felt downright miniature. And my strong desire for a whiskey seemed unethical.
The smell of fresh coffee wafted through the house. Classical music played lightly from the family room. This home might have been a comforting place to be under better circumstances. Given the current situation, the cozy atmosphere did nothing to soothe me.
I was an adult with severe amnesia, inexplicably stuck in a child's body, about to have pancakes with said child's mother. There was nothing to be calm about.
I'd probably not even get to partake in the coffee I was smelling, being that I was likely about eight years old. The hits just kept on coming.
At least there are pancakes.
I was losing my mind.
Clueing Evie’s mom into my situation could just scare the crap out of her and get me nowhere anyway. But I had no idea how to act around her.
Maybe Evie's mother being here will turn out to be perfect. If there is anyone who I could convince of this situation, it should be a mom, right? She will trust her daughter eno
ugh to listen to me when I try to explain. She can help.
“Would you like blueberries or strawberries with your pancakes?” Mom asked me as I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Uh, blueberries, thanks.” My voice was even smaller and higher-pitched than I’d expected.
She walked a plate piled high with cakes and blueberries to the table. Stopping in front of me, she looked at me expectantly. “What do you say?”
“Umm, thank you?”
“You're very welcome,” she said, smiling as she finally set the plate down in front of me.
I vigorously dug in. There was a hint of cinnamon in the fluffy cakes, and the blueberries scattered on top were pleasantly juicy. Where yesterday my stomach had been too twisted to eat, today burying my panic in pancakes sounded like a good idea.
“Evie! What are you doing?” Mom yelled, obviously very upset about something.
I checked that I wasn't eating with my hands, or something equally ridiculous. Everything seemed to be in order. “Eating? These are delicious! Thanks!”
“You haven't said grace yet!”
“Oh, okay. Sorry,” I apologized, hoping she didn't notice how little sincerity was behind that apology. Something told me it was wrong to trust anything enough to have the faith required for religion.
As far as I knew, I’d never actually prayed before. But I closed my eyes and bowed my head like you see people do in movies.
After what felt like ages without chewing a bite of pancake, I opened one eye to check for her approval. She looked suspicious at best. She’d definitely noticed something was off about her daughter today.
I went back to my pancakes, but chewed each bite much more meticulously than before. I was hoping to use a full mouth as an excuse to avoid talking for as long as humanly possible.
Mom came and sat across from me at the table. “Did you finish your fractions homework last night?”
Unsure of how to answer, I simply nodded, making a show of chewing the bite I’d just taken.
“Good job, I’m proud of you! I know math has been especially hard for you, but learning it will pay off, sweetie.”
I nodded again, feeling a bit like a bobblehead doll. When I had regretfully finished my pancakes, I sat staring at the empty plate in front of me, wondering what to do next. It was hard to imagine how I’d tell this woman that a stranger might be hurting her child by living in her brain…
“Is everything okay, Evie? You seem strange today.”
“I’m fine.”
I was not fine; I was far from fine. But what else could I say?
If I hurt this little girl and her kind, pancake-making mother, I’m going to hate myself.
Taking my plate to the sink seemed like a safe course of action. Plus, a good excuse to get away from Mom's incredulous gaze. I rinsed my plate and stacked it with the other plates on the counter.
Hoping for some alone time in order to collect myself, I said, “Thank you for breakfast. I'm going to go play in my room now.” I started for the hall.
“Evie, you have school today!”
“Shit,” I whispered under my breath. I couldn’t go to school. I had to find a way to tell Evie's mom what was going on without terrifying her. And also, I just really badly didn't want to. “Actually, Mom, I'm not feeling well today. Can I stay home?”
“You just said you were fine.”
“Yeah, well, it has come on suddenly.” I tried to cough convincingly into my tiny hand.
Apparently, lying is not my strong suit.
She didn't believe me in the slightest, but she said, “Alright, sweetie. Go get back in bed and I’ll come in a minute to take your temperature.”
I started running down the hallway before I remembered I was sick and slowed to a quickened walk. When I got to Evie's room, I closed the door behind me and went straight to pacing.
I tossed around a few ideas, none of which sounded particularly good. But before I knew it, Mom was coming in the door. My time was up.
“Get into bed, Evie. I have the thermoma—”
In a moment of panic, the words in my head all made a break for my mouth at once, and the ones that managed to make their way out were, “I’m not your daughter!”
I wasn't off to a very good start.
She looked at me like she was trying to remember if she had ever dropped me on my head hard enough to warrant this behavior. I couldn't really blame her. Apparently not being able to come up with an instance, she asked sternly, “What is that supposed to mean?”
A very valid question. I tucked my hair behind my ears and took a deep breath to strengthen my voice.
“Ma'am, I really don't want to frighten you, but I’m not Evie. I mean, I kind of am, because I’m in her body. But I'm just borrowing it. Mentally, I'm not Evie. I don't know who I am. I need your help figuring that out. Are we in Washington?”
She kind of looked like I had hit her over the head with an anvil. It was easy to imagine the cartoon birdies and stars circling her.
“Evie, this isn't funny. You have never called me ‘ma'am’ before, and I don't want you starting now.”
That was the upsetting part of what I’d just said?
I repeated, “Are we in Washington?”
What if I was in an accident near Ashley's apartment, and that’s how I ended up in her mind yesterday? Maybe my body is comatose in a Seattle hospital, just waiting for me to find my way back!
It sounded insane. But all of this was insane.
“No, we aren't in Washington. We live in Ohio! You know that, Evie! Stop being ridiculous! You're worrying me!”
Damnit.
If there could be that much distance between bodies, I might not have started in Seattle at all. It could have been totally random that I ended up there. But that was unfortunately the only idea I had.
“I might have been in an accident in Seattle a couple days ago. I need your help to find out if that’s true, so I can get back to my body and give you back your daughter.”
She stared at me for what felt like forever. I thought I might have actually broken her. It must be shocking to hear your eight-year-old talking like she has suffered a mental break, but I had hoped she would take it better than this. With each excruciating second that passed, it sank in deeper that I'd made a huge mistake. This woman would be of no help to me. No one would ever believe this story, no matter how true it was.
I am on my own.
I hoped desperately that I would never end up in a kid again. Not being able to get in a car and drive away from this failing conversation made me feel helpless in a way that really pissed me off.
When Mom finally showed signs of life again, she simply turned around and left the room.
I guess that could have gone worse… she wasn't screaming when she left.
I collapsed face down onto the bed and stayed there, planning to hide quietly in Evie's room for the rest of the day. Wasting time not looking for answers was frustrating, but being in this child’s body, there wasn’t much else I could do. As I lay there with my face in a pillow, my mind kept racing.
I might be hurting people by existing. I might not have a body of my own. And if I have one, I might never find it…
When I had effectively talked myself into feeling completely hopeless, Evie's mom burst back into the room. A man wearing all-black with a white collar followed in behind her.
She called the damn church!?
I craned my neck back to look up into the lanky priest’s thin face. He was angular in a way that reminded me of a bird. His nose hairs were gray. His knees were knobby. From my vantage point, I couldn't see much more than that.
The glare on his wire-rimmed glasses made the lenses more like mirrors, hiding his eyes completely. It made it hard to gauge how scared of him I should be.
I’d had so many worries when I woke up that morning. But I legitimately hadn’t seen this coming. It would have been hilarious, if I wasn’t so sure I was about to receive an exorcism.
&nb
sp; To my surprise, he asked Mom to leave the room so he could speak to me alone.
I'll get a chance to convince him I don't need to be drowned in holy water! Hallelujah!
He perched himself carefully on one of the small chairs that went with the tea set table. It wobbled under his weight. Now that I could see his light, wrinkled eyes, I felt less intimidated. But only slightly.
“Evie, why did you call your mother ‘ma'am’ earlier today?”
Wow, seriously?
“I think I heard someone say it on TV.”
Parents blame TV for all of their kids’ odd behavior, right?
“Why would you tell your mother that you are not Evie?”
“I was just playing pretend. I am Evie,” I said, in the most innocent voice that her eight-year-old body could muster.
“Okay, Evie... Do you ever hear voices? Do voices ever tell you to do things?”
“Voices? No…” I almost called him ‘sir’, but caught myself. In this house, that could be all it took to assure him I was possessed by the devil himself. “I just like to play pretend sometimes. I'm sorry I scared Mommy.”
I tried to look at him with those puppy-dog eyes people talk about kids using when they want something. I wanted him to leave me alone. I really wanted it.
He stared at me intently for a full minute, trying to decide if the devil was out to fool him. Imagine how dull of a demon I would have been! My most scandalous behavior so far had been calling my mother ‘ma'am’.
The priest pulled a silver flask from his jacket’s breast pocket. There was an ornate cross embossed onto the front, and a gold engraving on the back that I wasn't able to read, but assumed was a bible verse. He removed the top and threw splashes of clear liquid onto my face while he muttered a prayer in what might have been Latin.
I didn't know what the proper reaction to a holy water shower was, so I just sat there like this wasn't the weirdest experience I’d ever had. Eventually, he stopped muttering and put the flask away. He watched me carefully. I don't know what result he was expecting, but he seemed satisfied by the nothing that happened.
I offered him a cup of fake tea. Overkill, maybe. But whatever, he bought it. He politely declined my offer and left the room.